pretty young thing
If Darryl’s taught you anything, it’s to never settle for less.
A/N: babe, wake up, new izzwhatitiz fic dropped
Pairing: Darryl (Bad – short film) x Ditzy!Reader
Warnings: SELF-INDULGENT! reader is female and girly, late-teen romance, fluff, lots of school drama/gossip, mentions of teen pregnancy (not involving main characters), inaccurate depictions of the 1950s
WC: 1.6k
There are many, many, many elements you hate about boarding school – waking up at the crack of dawn, assessments for nearly every subject when the term just started, the teachers who lash out due to their failed marriages (not to be specific, or anything).
But an aspect you don’t… ‘mind’ are the dormitories.
It’s the only area on the grounds a whisper of personality is permitted.
For someone with as loud a personality as you, it’s become quite the safe haven; if safe meant screaming into feathery-soft pillows.
The space is quite typical for an adolescent - white sheets decorated with pink bows and ribbons, small stuffies resting on the plush of your mattress, elegant posters of Marilyn Monroe pinned on the walls.
On the bedside table is a framed photo of yourself and Darryl in front of some carnival’s carousel.
You both share a cloud of cotton candy; the camera capturing as you take a joint bite from each side - ruined lipstick was such a nuisance, but he happily held up your pocket mirror to restore its flawless appearance.
You kiss it every night, encouraging your mind to conjure dreams of your favourite boy.
Next to the picture lies a rotary phone – painted in your favourite shade of pink. The appliance was so kindly gifted to you by Darryl, who spent months at the local car dealership saving for the most luxurious brand (you only deserve the best, after all); whisking all sorts of contracts with his charm and wit, dominating the field.
He brought you to a fancy diner, and slid the glossy box to your side of the booth in a shy manner – watching as you unwrapped it with the gleefulness of a child on Christmas, not a care in the world.
Seeing the contents, you immediately jumped up and hugged him tight, squealing, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you!’ embellished with an array of kisses to his cheek, leaving delicate stains on the skin – not that he minded one bit.
Now, you can listen to the sound of Darryl’s smooth voice from the comfort of your room – kicking your feet whenever he drowns you in compliments.
There’s an unspoken rule in your relationship (which was the prime motivation for his present) – a call must be exchanged daily, and it must take place before 7 p.m.
Most men would run for the hills; with commitment being their ultimate fear, and all. But not Darryl, he indulges you, for the point of a landline is convenience – no longer needing to dash to the payphone at the end of the road.
Huffing at the thought of losing any beauty sleep, your eyes dart to the heart-shaped clock hanging above your bed; noticing how late it’s gotten.
6:58 p.m.
You nibble at your fingertips, strutting up and down the walkway, urging the phone to ring with your imaginary mind control, ‘Come on, you’re cutting it real close!’
Another minute passes, and anticipation both grows and fizzles.
It’s not like you’ll ignore him for his tardiness, but you wouldn’t exactly be pleased. He knows how crankiness consumes your nervous system when given less than eight hours of rest – not including the time spent performing your nightly routine, consisting of: makeup removal, showering, hair care, and preparing the necessary items for the next set of lessons.
Tick, tick, tick.
The clock strikes seven - and on the dot, rattling graces your ears, the handset vibrating against its cradle. Saved by the bell… quite literally.
Your shoulders descend, distancing themselves from your neck; a sigh of relief accompanying the action.
Snatching the telephone into your palms, you snap, “Where’ve you been, Darryl? I was waiting all day!” The microphone hardly picks up your sentiment – sending indistinct puffs of wind to the other line; leaving your lover confused.
He hums unsurely, “I didn’t catch that, sorry. Do you mind repeating yourself, pretty?”
Darryl’s presence softens your frustration, nearly forgetting why you were upset in the first place (especially with the calculated placement of his favourite pet-name).
Keyword: nearly.
“You had me worried sick, y’know that? Not a word from you from the time the Sun rose and set, then suddenly, calling me after supper! Acceptable hours have long past, Dee.”
“I know, I’m really sorry. That’s how exam season is – I was swamped with schoolwork the whole afternoon,” a pause, “but the thought of you kept me going. Just saying.”
The subtle guilt-trip sewn into his statement doesn’t go unnoticed, as Darryl knows exactly how to worm his way back into your good graces.
Rolling your eyes, bottom lip jutting out slightly - you relent, “…You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Missed you, too.” The boy stifles a giggle, amused at how quickly he talked you down from a temper tantrum.
That elicits a scoff, “You don’t even want to know what I experienced today, Dee. It was the worst.”
“Of course, I do! Place your burdens onto me, or something like that.” Darryl would never entrust his secrets onto anyone (well, except you), but he’s a sucker for gossip – and it just so happens, more ‘drama’ occurs over at your school than his.
At his approval, the chatterbox that is your mouth begins whirring away, “During lunch break, all my friends could rant about were how sleazy their boyfriends are – how they’re unwilling to dish out the same kind of love and attention they receive for doing absolutely nothing!”
You continue while seating yourself onto the edge of your bed, legs crossing, “But when I try to convince them to leave for somebody better, somebody worth their time, they tell me it’s ‘none of your beeswax.’ Apparently, advice from someone who’s actually in a healthy relationship isn’t warranted!”
“Hmm… I kind of understand that. I mean, you don’t experience hardships like that with me – I hope – so, how could you offer guidance concerning them, right?”
You laugh incredulously, “Don’t be silly – you absolutely treat me better than any of those other boys, it’s why we’re dating, duh! But I… I just wanted to help, girl to girl.”
There’s a rustle on his end, hints of scribbling on paper, “Give ‘em time, pretty, they’re realise that soon enough – they can’t see it yet.”
“It’s so annoying! And as if it wasn’t bad enough, one of my teachers – you know the one – wrote me up for detention later this week for wearing nail polish! It was meant to be a surprise for you, Dee… but now it’s all gone.”
Glancing downward to the botched removal of polish, you recall what a dampener that was to your spirits – conformity at its finest. What a creative killer, it is.
“Aww, my sweet girl. Don’t worry ‘bout it, alright? Knowing you, I’m sure they were beautiful – and, hey! Term holidays are coming up, so you can fix them then. I’ll take you to the movies, too – so you can show ‘em off.” Darryl coos, imagining the glassiness in your eyes in response to the reprimand – raised voices were always a sensitivity in your life.
“I suppose… but now my nails are plain and gross. The rules are so stupid! Colourful fingers are not the end of the world.” Throwing your hands up, you lament – bitterness towards the system building at an increasing rate.
“Yeah, well, the people enforcing those rules seem to have forgotten they were young once. Or maybe they were just born fully-grown.” The sincerity in his tone makes you snort, “No seriously! I know for sure one of my teachers is a freak of nature – the guy’s nearly 90-years-old and still working. He’s gotta be ancient. Pre-historic, even.”
Uncrossing your legs, you move to lay onto your stomach, fiddling with the telephone’s cord, “Stop playing, Dee!”
“I’m not!”
“Darryl.”
His full name causes the boy to straighten, playful attitude dissipating by an inch, “Alright, alright. I only wanted to keep your head away from distasteful things, is that a crime?”
“Are you going to let me finish my story or not?” You groan, massaging your temples.
Despite how lovely Darryl is, he’s still a boy.
“Go ahead, baby. Don’t let me stop you.”
You pull the handset nearer, slightly muffled as you explain the absurdest discovery, “Anyway… this girl in my year, her name’s Savannah, I think? She, uh… got ‘knocked up’ by some guy working at the drive-in. It’s become quite obvious which stage she is in her pregnancy, as there’s a clear bump – but, but! She keeps denying it, saying it’s just menstrual bloating.”
Darryl chokes on the other line, expecting anything but the news you relayed onto him, “Hold on! How- how is she still attending classes? Shouldn’t she visit a doctor, or at least her parents be made aware?”
He’s spiralling - so you decide to bring him back to Earth, “I don’t know the logistics of teen pregnancy, Darryl, as I am not a pregnant teen.”
“Fair. But… there are courses of action for these things, aren’t there?” Unbeknownst to you, a blush rises to his cheeks – acquainted with exactly what that would involve.
You ponder, pulling a plush doll to your chest, “Maybe – she could just be hiding it from her academic life, to keep up appearances and such. Things like this ruin a person’s life, Dee.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” The skepticism in his tone tickles you – since Darryl often plays devil’s advocate, much to his peers’ chagrin.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, I just find the whole situation baffling.”
“That’s because it is! I can’t imagine how difficult it is remaining calm with all that… pressure.”
Darryl exhales, the cogs in his brain working overtime.
At the same time you yawn, tiredness catching up to you – finally asking, “That’s all from me. So, how was your day, my love?”
He’s currently sketching in the margins of his mathematics textbook (the worst of all of them, according to him) – little drawings of miniature you and him cuddling, surrounded by love hearts, “Not nearly as exciting as yours, that’s for sure, pretty.”
